Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not

on bat or ball,

But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimics all.

His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplext

With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about the next.

He kneels at his dear mother's knee, she teacheth him to pray,

And strange, and sweet, and solemn then are the words which he will say.

Oh, should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years like me,

A holier and a wiser man I trust that he

will be ;

And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his thoughtful brow,

I dare not think what I should feel, were I to lose him now,

I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three;

I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features be,

How silver sweet those tones of his when he

prattles on my knee;

I do not think his light blue eye is, like his brother's, keen,

Nor his brow so full of childish thought as his hath ever been;

But his little heart's a fountain pure of kind and tender feeling,

And his every look's a gleam of light, rich depths of love revealing.

When he walks with me, the country folk, who pass us in the street,

Will shout for joy, and bless my boy, he looks so mild and sweet.

A playfellow is he to all, and yet, with cheerful

tone,

Will sing his little song of love, when left to sport alone.

His presence is like sunshine sent to gladden home and hearth,

To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth.

Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may prove

As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now for earthly love;

And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes must dim,

God comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in him.

I have a son, a third sweet son; his age I can not tell,

For they reckon not by years and months where he is gone to dwell.

To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant smiles were given,

And then he bade farewell to Earth, and went to live in Heaven.

I cannot tell what form his is, what looks he weareth now,

Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph brow.

The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss. which he doth feel,

Are numbered with the secret things which God will not reveal.

But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is now at rest,

Where other blessed infants be, on their Saviour's loving breast.

I know his spirit feels no more this weary load of flesh,

But his sleep is blest with endless dreams of joy for ever fresh.

I know the angels fold him close beneath their glittering wings,

And soothe him with a song that breathes of Heaven's divinest things.

I know that we shall meet our babe (his mother dear and I),

Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every eye.

Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss

can never cease;

Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is certain peace.

It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls from bliss may sever,

But, if our own poor faith fail not, he must be ours for ever.

When we think of what our darling is, and what we still must be;

When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and this world's misery;

When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief and pain,

Oh! we'd rather lose our other two, than have him here again.

Was Honor Neale; and in the further west

Of Ireland stood her parents' lowly hut. For some brief while this child was brought within

The holy influence of a better faith

Than that her parents held, the faith of Rome — Attending for a season at a school

Where the pure doctrine and the lore of Christ

Was truly taught; and there this little child, Though slow to learn, yet rendered earnest heed

To all she heard; but after some short time,

Before it could be known if that good seed

Sown in her heart would put forth blade and

ear,

Her parents, whether of their own accord,
Or urged by some suggestion from without,
Withdrew her, and she laboured in the fields
Beside her father. 'Twas a late wet spring,
And she, of weakly frame, could ill endure
To carry heavy burdens on her back,
As she was tasked to do, till many times
She left her labour, and, returning home,
Sat down and cried for weariness and pain;
But still her mother, thinking that she made
More of her pains than need was, in the hope
She might be suffered to return to school,
A wish she failed not often to express,

Would sometimes ask her, had she then no mind

To lend her father what small help she could,
On whom the burden of a family

Of many daughters with one only boy
Pressed heavily-and then without a word
She would return unto her work again.
But soon she evidently grew too weak

For toil, and soon too weak to leave the house,
And illness that was doubtless to be traced